


once i sink my teeth (your skin's not so tough)

by whyclarke



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Crack, Eventual Sex, Fluff, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Slow Burn, but only in the sense that they aren't allowed to kiss or touch each other, ciri is pushing her adopted dad to let people in, like there will be some intense Definitely Not Having Sex RN Lana I Promise bathing, too hot to handle, unbeta'd. welcome to quarantine brain babey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyclarke/pseuds/whyclarke
Summary: The air around them seemed to shift; Geralt’s gaze darkened. His gold eyes dropped to Jaskier’s mouth, and then slowly -- purposefully -- trailed back up. Jaskier bit his lip.“Geralt,” he started, leaning in.Then, when what Jaskier had thought to be an oil diffuser began to speak.basically, i was sitting in bed and thought to myself, "wow, everyone on the witcher is super horny. what they were contestants on too hot to handle?" and then this was born.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	once i sink my teeth (your skin's not so tough)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inexplicably inspired by the latest arc in [no filter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283896/chapters/53218687), which i absolutely adore. consume it! find the comment i left about wanting to write this! 
> 
> we all know geralt and jaskier would not be able to keep their hands off of each other in the villa. they are francesca and harry, i can feel it.
> 
> the title is from peach by the front bottoms!

Jaskier was the first to arrive. The villa was gorgeous, properly -- straw-thatched huts sitting beside a cerulean pool, tropical flowers lining a path to an opal-sanded beach, grassy fields equipped with free weights and footballs. He loitered near a bottle of champagne, searching for someone to share it with. 

The producers had told him that he would be marketed as the ‘hopeless romantic’ for the show.  _ It’s a relative term,  _ they said,  _ in a group so… disinterested in commitment.  _ He almost shuddered to think of how “disinterested in commitment” the others will be, if he’s considered a romantic. Sure, he  _ likes _ romance -- he’s a songwriter, after all -- but he’s always fallen more in love with the idea of loving someone than any person he’s slept with. 

A woman sidled up next to him, startling him from his thoughts. Her hair was wild, dark brown and curling against the humidity; there was something about the hard set of her jaw that made him uneasy. 

“Renfri,” she said, flashing her teeth in a shark’s smile. She had an accent he couldn’t quite place.

“I’m Jaskier,” he replied. “It is so lovely to meet you.” 

They hugged in that odd we’re-strangers-but-they’re-paying-us sort of way, all fumbling hands and mismatched limbs. The moment seemed to stretch for just a beat too long. Renfri stepped away, tucked a strand of hair behind her small ear. A pretty gold earring flashed in the sunlight. 

“Well, let’s get this bottle open, shall we?” Jaskier cleared his throat. Maybe they didn’t have an immediate spark, but that was nothing a bit of bubbly couldn’t fix, right? Before he had the chance to grab the bottleneck, though, Renfri had twisted the cork off, deft fingers releasing the pressure with barely a  _ pop _ .

Jaskier glanced at the entrance to the villa longingly. He had been looking forward to a bit of mess from the bottle, something to laugh about together, but Renfri looked like the type of person who would rather stab herself with her own earring than have a moment marked by frills. 

He sighed.  _ Hopeless romantic, indeed. _

The others began to file into the villa, clad in tiny bikinis or board shorts: a beautiful dark-haired girl called Triss, a harsh-looking man named Cahir, a regal-looking woman who introduced herself as Fringilla, and a golden retriever of a boy who told Jaskier that he was  _ Jordan Renzo, Eyck of Denesle.  _

Introductions were made, weird stranger-hugs exchanged. The villa began to settle into smaller groups -- or, more accurately, the icy Cahir and Fringilla stalked away from the main group while everyone else made polite small talk. They settled into bland conversation: where are you from? What do you do for a living? And what, pray tell, the  _ fuck _ is an Eyck? (The last, of course, spoken by an incredibly amused Jaskier). 

When the next woman entered, though, the villa fell silent. 

She was gorgeous, of course: clever eyes gleaming purple in the midday sun, and a spill of dark hair tumbling down a perfect hourglass figure. But everyone in the villa was gorgeous -- that was practically the point of the retreat. But where everyone in the villa was wearing bathing suits, the newcomer wore only a gossamer gown, sheer as moonlight, that left impressibly little to the imagination. 

Jaskier wanted to huff -- he had to be the  _ hopeless romantic,  _ and this lady got  _ seductress,  _ or something? It all felt very unfair. 

“Right. Um…” Jaskier said. “Welcome. Sorry, we’re all terribly… hot. It’s positively sweltering here, wouldn’t you say? I guess you don’t have to deal with that, what with the -- anyways, I’m Jaskier.” He stuck out a hand, gluing his eyes to hers. 

“Yennefer Vengerberg,” she said. 

“Yes, well. Yennefer.” Jaskier dropped his hand unshaken. “Would you like a drink?”

“Meletile’s tit, yes.” 

Jaskier busied himself with pouring her a glass of champagne. She took the flute with a slim-fingered hand, taking a careful sip. “The producers told me to make an entrance,” she said. “I told them it was this or no clothing at all.”

Most of the villa resumed their chatter, satisfied enough by her answer, although Cahir and Fringilla sent rather pointed glances in their direction. 

“They’re rather judgemental, aren’t they.” Yennefer lifted her chin towards the pair.

“It is a bit of a shock to the system, in their defense,” Jaskier said. “What do you do, Yennefer? Exhibition?”

“I’m a legal advocate for women in abusive homes, actually,” Yennefer replied haughtily. “I just don’t believe the female body should be viewed as an inherently sexual thing.” 

“Why, that’s -- a rather good point, actually. I can’t say I do anything nearly as important, unless you count entertaining the masses.”

“ _ The masses _ ?” Yennefer smirks. “I can’t say I’ve heard of you.”

“A mass is a relative term, my dear Yennefer. The point is that I’m entertaining,” Jaskier said with a flourish. “You could tell the others about your crusade against hypersexualization, though. Might placate them a bit.” He cast a meaningful glance towards Cahir and Fringilla, who were clearly discussing Yennefer’s entrance with some vitriol. 

“Never mind them,” she said, waving a hand. “Who is  _ that _ ?”

The midday sun silhouetted a man approaching the group. Jaskier could make out broad shoulders and thighs cut like a marble statue

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said, dragging his eyes down the stranger’s impressive figure. “But I’d certainly like to.” 

Yennefer chuckled. “Well, it seems you’ll have the chance.” 

The man -- more mountain than man, really -- stalked towards them, practically  _ rippling  _ with muscle; his angular face was topped by a shock of white hair that spilled carelessly over the hard planes of his chest. 

Yennefer’s face flattened in recognition as her gaze rose to meet his striking amber eyes, but Jaskier was too busy admiring the man to notice.

His hand snaked past Jaskier and closed around the neck of the champagne, sniffing it suspiciously. He grunted and poured it into a glass, the alcohol apparently passing his test; it was gone in two gulps. 

“The champagne is passably decent, if you take a moment to taste it,” Jaskier said. He leaned against the table, elbow finding the surface a moment after his hip bumped against the wood. “Honestly, the way you’ve entered into the villa and immediately begun to brood is almost... inspiring.”

“I’m not here to make friends.”

“Good. Yeah, good. It’s just -- this is a reality TV show, and a dating one, at that.” Jaskier eyed the man for a moment. “So you must be here for something. Love, perhaps?” 

“It doesn’t exist,” the man said. 

“What doesn’t exist?” 

“Love.” 

“Don’t be sour, dear friend. I’m a songwriter -- my living is made on love’s wings, if you will.” Jaskier laughed. “What’s your name?” 

The man merely hums in response.

“Geralt,” Yennefer said. Jaskier’s attention snapped to her, but her gaze was on the other man. “I didn’t recognize you, at first. You’ve let your hair grow.” She turned to Jaskier. “We… dated. Once.” 

“You could call it that,” Geralt grunted. “I wouldn’t, though.” He kept his eyes on Yennefer even as he poured and subsequently chugged another glass of champagne. 

“Honestly, at this point, you might as well drink straight from the bottle,” Jaskier sighed. He wasn’t sure if the pair were going to rip each other’s clothes off or throats out, but he wasn’t totally inclined to find out. “I suppose I’ll leave you two lovebirds to catch up.” Geralt tore his attention from Yennefer, gaze darkening to something murderous. 

“Stay,” he growled. Jaskier flushed underneath his stare. “You said you write songs.” 

“Erm -- yes, and perform them, too. I’m still at smaller venues, of course, but I have a rather loyal fanbase, and they’re always willing to show up and fill a space,” Jaskier rambled. 

Geralt was characteristically silent. 

“It’s sort of an indie-folk fusion. Very high fantasy, if you know what I mean -- I’m classically trained on the lute, and it’s the main instrument in most of my music. The genre is honestly quite hard to quantify, though,” he went on. 

He had begun to describe one of his more popular songs,  _ Toss a Coin, _ when Geralt lifted a hand.

“You talk a lot,” Geralt said, not unkindly. If anything, Jaskier would have said he was almost  _ amused --  _ his eyes seemed to relax around the edges, the corner of his mouth lifting infinitesimally. 

“Well, you talk very little,” Jaskier replied. “I have to fill the silence somehow.” A beat. “You’re actually rather handsome when you -- you know --  _ unclench.”  _

Geralt’s chin dipped down as if he were fighting a smile, even as he punched Jaskier not-so-lightly in the stomach. And then, gruffly: “I’m always handsome.” 

Jaskier laughed, bright and surprised; he didn’t think the man knew what a joke was, let alone how to make one. As he opened his mouth to speak again, though, Triss whooped victoriously. 

“I found tequila!”

***  
  


Three hours later, Yennefer had long since abandoned Geralt and Jaskier in favor of stalking Jordan about the villa like a panther circling her prey. Jordan, to his credit, wasn’t  _ not  _ into it -- he was bracing himself, though, by taking shots of the expensive liquor Triss had uncovered. 

“How long until she eats him?” Jaskier asked, and giggled. He had taken about as many shots as Jordan, and was on the tipsier side of buzzed. Geralt, on the other hand, had drunk twice as much and hadn’t so much as relaxed his jaw. 

“I think she may already have taken a bite,” he said. His chin bobbed towards where Yennefer had finally pounced: Jordan and the purple-eyed woman were trapped in what seemed to be a  _ very  _ passionate embrace. 

“Cheers to that.” Jaskier raised his glass, took a drink. “You know, you never told me why you’re here.” 

Geralt shifted his shoulders. “Money.”

“Right, but I don’t totally believe that,” the brunette said. “Come, now. It must be  _ something.”  _ He leaned in towards Geralt, his shoulder falling clumsily into the other man’s broad chest. “I’m your best friend, at least for the month. You can tell me.” 

“I don’t have friends.”

“Yes, yes, we already went over the ‘not-here-to-make-friends’ nonsense, but you’re going to need one if you want to survive spending a month trapped in a house with your not-ex girlfriend and her newest conquest.” 

Geralt finished his drink in response, and Jaskier was briefly distracted by the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He shook his head; maybe he was more drunk than he thought.

“But we’re travelling in circles, Geralt. If you won’t say  _ why  _ you’re here, will you at least tell me how?” Jaskier said. “Because I can’t imagine you choosing to attend this little getaway.”

“Hmm.” 

“I assume that’s ‘You’re absolutely right, Jaskier,’ in Geralt-speak.” He refilled their champagne flutes. Waited for the other man to fill the silence.

“It was my ward, Ciri,” Geralt said. He cleared his throat. “She signed me up. Said I needed to get out more.” 

“She sounds like a smart girl,” Jaskier replied, a smile dancing in his eyes. “What’s she like?”

“She’s… fiery. Determined. But kind, too. Kinder than me,” Geralt said. He ducked his head. There was something in the way he talked about his ward, a sort of unwitting adoration -- as if his love for her was in spite of himself. In spite of the walls he had built. Jaskier, for a moment, was lost in imagining Geralt to speak the same way about him. 

“I hope to meet her soon, then,” he said, and then mentally cursed himself.  _ Meet his daughter? You’ve known the man for a day, Jaskier. Get a grip.  _

Geralt, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice his Freudian slip. “She would like you, I think.” 

The sun was brushing against the horizon, painting the villa in shining hues of gold. Suddenly, Jaskier was aware of how close they were: their forearms brushing against each other each time they exhaled, Geralt’s white hair tickling the pink sunburn forming on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

The air around them seemed to shift, crackle; Geralt’s gaze darkened. His gold eyes dropped to Jaskier’s mouth, and then slowly -- purposefully -- trailed back up. Jaskier bit his lip. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, leaning in. 

Then, when what Jaskier had thought to be an oil diffuser began to speak.

“Hello, contestants,” The oil diffuser said. “I am Lana. I will guide you on your journey through the villa.” 

Geralt shifted away from Jaskier. He didn’t say anything, but something in the set of his shoulders told the brunette that Geralt was just as unhappy as him about the interruption.  _ I just got cock-blocked by a robot,  _ Jaskier thought.  _ Life never ceases to amaze.  _

“I have been monitoring your behavior for the past twelve hours in order to create a roadmap for the villa,” Lana continued. 

“Well, that’s incredibly terrifying,” Jaskier said. The contestants turned to him. “Oh, don’t try to pretend it’s not creepy.” Lana spoke again, undeterred by Jaskier’s complaint. 

“You are not here for the reason you think. The purpose of this retreat is to help you gain deeper emotional connections in your personal relationships. As an incentive, I have allocated a prize of $100,000.” 

The villa rumbled with excitement -- even the perennially unamused Fringilla and Cahir squinted their eyes in what Jaskier assumed was their version of a smile. 

“However, there are conditions to your stay here,” Lana said. The contestants sobered up abruptly. “You will have to abstain from sexual practices for the entirety of your stay.”

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier was inclined to agree. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for jumping into the trash can with me.
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr!](http://whyjaskier.tumblr.com)


End file.
